


uncertainty

by devilsalwayscry



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 04:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsalwayscry/pseuds/devilsalwayscry
Summary: He could be wrong. He's been wrong before. It's just a hunch, just an itch, and his instincts aren't as sharp as they used to be, not any more.(Dante contemplates V, the night before he takes on Urizen.)





	uncertainty

**Author's Note:**

> devilmayangry threw this scene at me and I elaborated on it, because I needed to. They feed me the angst so I may throw it at everyone else and make them have the angst, too.

"What are you waiting for?" Dante asks, long after Morrison's left and V remains on his couch, legs crossed and cane tucked under his right arm, book open in his lap. He'd been ignoring the other man for the past two hours, but it's getting late now, long after he'd normally lock things up, and V's not making a move to leave. The mystery man looks at him over the edge of his book, one brow arched, and it's a bit like looking at a ghost. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.

"I have nowhere better to be," V says, as if this is obvious, that his invading Dante's privacy is a perfectly acceptable and normal thing. Dante scoffs as he gets to his feet, drops the envelope of money in the desk drawer and locks it up.

"I'm not a charity," he says, tearing his eyes off the ghost on his couch and instead focusing his attention on the table in the corner of the room. He picks up empty liquor bottles and shakes them, trying to find one that's got a little bit left; doesn't find what he's looking for and has to move to the back room where he knows there's at least one unopened bottle of tequila waiting for him.

"And I'm not asking for charity," the man says in the other room as Dante rummages through his stash, rising to his feet triumphantly when he finds what he's looking for.

When he steps back into the lobby and his eyes land on V, he's not really ready for it, and he can feel bile rising up the back of his throat, unconscious and unwanted. He rips the top off the bottle of tequila and washes down his nausea with the hot, sharp burn of liquor; it gets him another raised brow and a tilted head, and it's so _fucking_ him, the way he looks at Dante like he's appraising him, judging him.

"We're not leaving for the job 'til the girls are ready in the morning," Dante says, after he downs another gulp of liquor and resumes his seat at his desk.

The man stares at him, face expressionless, before he shrugs.

"And I will be waiting right here," he says, like he owns the place. Smug bastard.

There's an itch in the back of his head that tells him he knows what's happening here, who this is and what he wants, and he chugs the tequila like its water, drowns himself in the familiar and pleasant burn on the back of his throat. He could be wrong. He's been wrong before. It's just a hunch, just an itch, and his instincts aren't as sharp as they used to be, not any more.

"Fine. Couch is all yours. Just don't make a fuss about how shitty it is," Dante says, and it's a little easier to look at him now that he's half a bottle in and his vision's starting to blur on the edges, and then it's almost kind of nice, seeing him this way. Half-distorted, a world away and behind a wall of alcoholic haze.

V doesn't answer that, but he does tuck himself into the corner of the couch, book still in hand, and Dante clings to the bottle of tequila in his fist like its a lifeline as he watches him move. Feline grace and precision in a weak and frail body. He's not helpless, Dante can tell that much, but he's human, for sure. Weak. It's what makes him doubt what his gut and his heart are telling him, makes him finish the bottle off with another few gulps and a shudder of breath.

By the time Dante's finished the first bottle and stumbling through his stash for a second, V's eyes are closed and his hand is resting on the book in his lap, looking peaceful and serene in the moonlight that shines in through the shop window. He watches him sleep, leaning against his desk, second bottle in hand and head swimming. _What are you? Why are you here?_ he asks the dark shape on the couch—doesn't get an answer, even though he wishes he would.

He's across the room, Ebony in his right hand and the bottle of liquor in his left, before he can even register that his feet are moving, and he stops just short of the mystery man on his couch, heart hammering in his chest. Dark hair, darker tattoos, pale skin beneath it all—there's something beautiful about him, beautiful and contradictory to what he's expecting, but that itch is still there, poking at the back of his mind despite the flood of alcohol in his veins.

He could be wrong. He shifts the gun in his hand, grips it like he means it. He's probably wrong. Sits his finger gently on the trigger, despite the shaking in his arm.

But what if he's right?

If it is him, should he just... end it here? Put a bullet in him now, go take out this demon, call it done before it can get out of hand?

He lifts the gun, points it at the crown of wavy black hair; his arm's shaking and swaying like a tree limb in a storm, but he knows his aim would be true enough. Humans are so easy to kill.

Is that what he wants? To just end it here, keep it buried, the past in the past?

Or is this... better? If this is him, or if they carry a part of him, as he suspects, could he keep it to himself? Keep him around this time, weaker and more fragile, lacking the power to fuck it all up again, safe at Dante's side and where he wants him. Where he belongs.

His palm sweats against the grip on the gun, breathing coming in ragged gasps of air, and he stands there, frozen in his indecision, for so long that his arm starts to become sore with the effort. Finally he lowers the weapon and takes another drink of liquor, letting out a shaky breath. He turns his back on his ghost and stumbles his way to his room without a second glance. It's not worth it, not for just a hunch. Either way, tomorrow he will go kill his brother again, and whatever happens will happen. _Que sera sera_.

Behind him, V watches him walk away, green eyes shining in the moonlight.


End file.
